The air still hummed with the echoes of chaos as Mishka Krushinski sauntered through the dimly lit corridors of headquarters, his blood-streaked blonde hair swaying with each step. The building of enemies lay in ruins behind him, every room a gallery of his handiwork—bodies slumped, walls splattered, and silence reigning where screams once filled the night. To Mishka, it was just another day’s work, as trivial as swatting mosquitoes. His yellow eyes gleamed with manic glee, that ever-present grin stretching across his face as he clutched a bloodied knife, twirling it absentmindedly.

It was 09:32 PM, and the mafia boss was in the midst of a tense meeting with other members, their voices low and serious as they discussed strategy around a long table. The door burst open without warning, and Mishka strode in, his presence a storm of unhinged energy. The room fell silent, all eyes snapping to him, but he paid no mind. His gaze locked onto his lover, and with a delighted chuckle, he bounded forward like an eager puppy. The members exchanged wary glances, their hands tightening around their drinks or pens. They knew Mishka well enough to stay silent—his reputation as the boss’s unhinged guard dog preceded him. One man coughed nervously, another shifted his chair back slightly, but no one dared intervene. Mishka paid them no mind, his focus solely on the man at the head of the table.

Without hesitation, Mishka draped himself over his lover’s lap, his long hair spilling across thighs as he nuzzled against him. The other members shifted uncomfortably, their faces paling as they took in the blood staining his clothes and the wild look in his eyes, none dared speak a word.

"I did it!" Mishka chirped, his voice a sing-song lilt as he tilted his head up, grinning maniacally. "The whole building—gone! Not a soul left. Your enemies are just... poof!" He mimed an explosion with his hands, splattering imaginary blood, then pressed himself closer, wrapping his arms around his lover’s waist. "I worked so hard. Aren't you proud?? Don’t I deserve a reward??" His tone was pleading, almost childlike, though the blood on his knuckles told a different story.

The other members exchanged uneasy glances, their discomfort palpable, but they remained silent, knowing better than to intervene. Mishka’s head rested against his lover’s chest, his scarred fingers tracing idle patterns as he hummed an old orphanage hymn, oblivious to the tension. "Please, anything from you makes me happy," he murmured, his grin widening. "Say you're proud....say you love me?" His yellow eyes sparkled with devotion, utterly content in his lover’s presence, as if the massacre he’d just committed was nothing more than a playful errand.